AN UNEXPECTED OUTCOME
The challenge came the next day. Alf was walking in the colonnade, waiting for Lewis, the chief guardsman, to appear. They had agreed to finish the swords that day and also to discuss new plans for the defenses on the gate. Alf was eager to introduce new weaponry his father spoke of.
Where is he? Ah! There he is.
The courtyard was dark under scudding clouds and he saw the older war chief cross the flagstones, heading up to him.
“Alf,” he said, only his eyes smiling, his face set in its usual serious expression. “I was delayed...”
As he spoke, someone stepped out from behind Alf, heading from the castle. “Lewis,” an imperious voice said. “What's the trouble? Why do you go to him? I am his lordship’s aide.”
Alf turned and looked at him. “No, you're not,” he said.
The taller man's eyes widened and narrowed as if he's slapped him. “I beg your pardon?” he said. “I am his lordship's trusted man; his heir. You challenge that?”
“I do,” Alf said boldly. “You're nothing here. His ward. I am his son-in-law. His heir. Invited to it by the thane.” He didn't mention the thane in question lived sixty miles away in the north and was not the thane of Bronley, but anyhow.
“You lie,” Beiste hissed. He stepped back. “Lewis, hear this. That man lies.” He shouted it aloud, so the whole courtyard could hear and bear witness to his proclamation. “All of you! I call that man,” he pointed squarely at Alf, “A liar and a fraud. I am the rightful heir here. My sword proclaims it.” He slapped the hilt of his sword where it hung at his side. “Does anyone dispute my right to claim that?”
No one answered. Beiste turned to Alf, a thin-lipped smile on his brooding features. “Do you accept my challenge, sir?” The last word was sneered, a deliberate insult.
“I do,” Alf said plainly. Inside, he was tense with nerves. Outwardly, he was perfectly composed.
“Fine,” Beiste snarled. “Well, then. You, sir, map us out a ground. We'll fight this here and now.”
“You must give lord Alf the leave to fetch his sword,” Lewis said levelly. “It is protocol.”
Beiste snorted. “Very well.”
Alf raised a brow and Lewis looked down, every line of him speaking of his disapproval. However, he chalked out the fighting square on the flagstones and stepped back.
A crowd had assembled by the time Alf returned, every man-at-arms in the castle seeming to want to watch them battle it out in the small square drawn on the flagstones. Beiste was already there, his mail donned, his sword in one hand. He looked down at Alf and gave a grim smile.
Alf swallowed hard. The man was taller and broader than him – half a head taller at the least, he reckoned – and he held the great-sword with a casual ease that spoke of training as long as his own. At best, they were evenly matched. At worst, the advantages were not with Alf.
He drew in a long, slow breath. He had trained with his father, chief guard at Dunkeld, until his arm ached and his head blurred with exhaustion. He had sparred with Brodgar, his cousin and the thane's heir, since he was a small boy, and they had both received the same tuition as each other. His sword was Frankish steel. Not perhaps as good as that of his opponent, which was Spanish made, to judge from the style and the hilt of it. Nevertheless, it would do.
“Lord Alf, Lord Beiste,” Lewis said, clearing his throat and explaining the rules of the combat. “You fight over a dispute of views. This fight is to the first blood, strictly.” he leveled a look at Beiste, as if to enforce that view. “You will stay in that square and fight until this feud is over. You will not leave nor call any to your aid. You start when I drop the kerchief and you stop when the fight is concluded, or when I tell you to. No other time. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Alf said firmly.
Beiste nodded grimly. “Agreed.”
They walked into the square. The guardsmen ringed them, a silent wall of mail, spears, and eyes. Alf drew in a breath. He was not used to having such a considerable audience. He tensed, wondering if the thane was there somewhere, looking down from the upper level. Or Ambeal?
He heard feet then, and a gasp of horror. Ambeal. She was up there in the solar, looking down. He saw her plum red dress and felt his heart settle. Good. If he died, there was a chance to say goodbye.
The whole world seemed to flow slowly after that. He saw Beiste walk slowly to the end of the square. Saw him turn and lower his blade. He stood where he was, tense and ready. The breeze ruffled round the courtyard. Somewhere, a cloth snapped in the wind. He looked at Lewis.
“Ready..?”
He dropped the kerchief. The wind caught it and took it.
Beiste raised his sword, stepped forward and brought it down in a singing arc. Looking at the sword, it seemed to be going slowly, but Alf almost heard the whistle as it sliced through the air, arcing for his head.
Distantly, as if in a dream, he heard someone scream. Ambeal.
Then, suddenly, everything was happening very fast. His body responded and he was parrying the blow, his torso dancing back, his arm lifting. The blow raked down the sword, making his arm ache. Sparks struck and he heard Beiste grunt.
Then he was dancing back and swinging up and it was his blade that was singing down, down and cutting straight for Beiste's head. On the edge of his vision he saw the swirl of a crimson cloak and knew that, somewhere, she was watching him.
“Hai!” he heard himself screaming as the battle-rage possessed him and there was no holding him back as he launched himself at his opponent. He had no idea that this was inside him, this untamed, wild spirit of the fight.
Forward, back. Block. Swing. Dance back. Arc down. Cut. Move, he's cutting for your head. Step back. And back again. Now up.
He knew this and he did not know how he knew it. Somehow, his soul was above the battle, and it felt as if he witnessed it as much as he fought in it, his body knowing how to do this, had always known how to do this.
He could see his opponent sweating and he did not feel anything but a strange detachment as the blade sang down for his head. He lifted the blade. Then Beiste stepped sideways, tripping him.
Alf felt his foot go out from under him and he felt the surprise as he collapsed. His sword was in his hand, but he could not lift fast enough to block the blade that was singing down, a high thin song as it cleaved the idea, arcing for his head.
A scream cut the air. “No!”
Ambeal.
Alf scrambled sideways, finding his feet. Thus, the blade that was meant for his head came down half a foot further to the left than it should have been and went into his upper left arm.
Alf blinked. The pain should have been there, but he felt nothing. He was surprised. He stood and was moving away and the arm was burning and there was a strange tickling wetness there.
He could hear someone crying, great racking sobs that tore at his heart. Still, he was detached. His mind was elsewhere. Where was he?
He could hear Lewis shouting something. The men-at-arms were running forward, traducing the edges of the square. Someone was crying. What was happening?
Then he heard a roar.
He stepped back automatically as Beiste ran for him, a great roaring lunge that should have brought the blade down clean through his head.
He stepped sideways and the blade cut through empty air. Then, without thinking, he was bringing the blade down again. He cut into Beiste's back and he felt the sword bite and then grate and stop.
Beiste was on the ground and he was standing. The wind, chilly and light, was around him, making him cold. Why was he so cold? Why was he so empty? He stood in the middle of the courtyard and the air moved slowly around him. He stayed up on his feet as Lewis came forward. The old man was screaming himself hoarse and Alf had no idea what it was he was saying.
He felt his legs get tired then, and the blood was running slowly down his arm. He crashed down to one knee.
What were they saying? Why did nothing make sense?
“You've won. Alf, you've won. You can stop now.”
He heard the voice. Of all the others, it cut through his brain. His arm was tingling and stinging now, a tearing pain that made him wince. Why was he so tired?
He smelled the tang of blood and knew that the dark stain that was on the stone was the blood that leaked from his arm. Why was there so much of it? Where was he? What was happening?
“Alf,” a voice sobbed. “Alf. My dear.”
Then everything was silent.